


Somewhere That Isn't Burning

by LMT



Series: Blackwater AU [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for after the Battle of the Blackwater. Here, Melisandre has accompanied the fleet, meaning Tyrion’s trick hasn’t worked, meaning Stannis has taken the city. And we all know what Melisandre likes to do when Stannis takes cities…</p><p>I'm sure it'll be a total picnic for a guy who hates fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

The guards couldn't subdue him. Even bound in rope and wrapped in chains, even wounded and exhausted, he was more than a match for the half dozen men who were trying to corral him to her chambers. He kept struggling, and wedging himself into doorways so that he couldn't be moved, and eventually smashing his own head against a wall in an apparent effort to brain himself.

At last Melisandre took matters into her own hands. “Put him on his knees,” she ordered. Even _that_ was a trial; they had to batter him savagely and bludgeon him about the legs before he could be dragged down and held there.

…And still. Even from the floor he pulled and struggled with all his fantastic strength. More men came to help and then, once he was finally held immobile, he threw his head back all the way to bare his throat. “A blade,” he gasped, to the ceiling. “For pity's sake do it. Someone do it, please, _someone_.”

Melisandre stood looking down at him, into his face, watching his mindless animal desperation. “Be quiet,” she said firmly, and let her hand hover over him. She meant to rest it on his mouth but he whimpered and flinched from her, hiding his face in his shoulder.

“Please no,” he said.  “Mercy. Don’t. I've-... had enough.”

“Be quiet,” she repeated, “And calm yourself. We are not taking you to execution.”

He shook his head and she could still hear him muttering, high and broken. Senseless.

She sighed. “You will kneel here until your wits return to you,” she declared. “We will wait all night if necessary.”

It didn't take all night. Not ten minutes passed before he was breathing again, before his great hunched shoulders relaxed, before his head dropped in defeat. He was shaking – and she could hear sobs – but he was not hysterical, not any more. Perhaps now he could listen.

“You fear me,” she said, standing close over him again. It was not a question – when she'd picked him out from among the captives, his legs had buckled and he'd collapsed like a maiden. She could smell that he'd lost control of his bladder too.

He pulled away from her as best he could. “Aye,” he said into his shoulder. He would not even look at her.

“You fear me because of the god I worship – and the manner in which I worship him.”

“I fe-hear you bec-c-cause you f-fucking burn pe-heople alive.” His voice was hitching and shaking so badly that the words were almost unintelligible.

If he wanted to discuss the mechanics of it, the mundane practical details, she had no objection. And she would not even need to lie to him. “The stake they are raising in the courtyard tonight is not for you,” she said. “I swear it. I need you for another purpose.”

She could see him warring with panic. Not winning.

“Look at me,” she ordered. She turned his face towards her and cupped it in both hands, stroking her thumb over where the scars met flesh. “The touch of god is already on you,” she told him calmly. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing.”

“So?” She could feel the scars pulling as he tried to swallow. “The fuck do you want with me?”

“What I want with you tonight,” she said, “Ought to be nothing that displeases you.” She kept her face smooth, giving him only a twitch of eyebrow for suggestion.

She saw at once that he understood – though he didn't believe her.

She released him and drew a finger over his lip. “Will you come quietly? Your courage will be rewarded if you do.”

He sucked his breath in and bowed his head. Rocked his weight back. (The guards had unwisely relaxed their grips on him. She didn't chastise them, though, since it hardly mattered. She only rarely misjudged men, and she knew she was not misjudging this one.) “So help me,” he said at last – rough and rasping. “If you’re lying to me...”

This time, a light touch under his chin was all it took to make him raise his head. She looked into his eyes for a long moment. “I do not deal in lies.”

* * *

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was no easy task; he was in sorry shape after the battle and the capture and the frantic fighting with the red woman's guards. He hurt everywhere.

He didn't let himself think of anything other than the hurt. He followed her up stairways and down corridors, not looking at the torch in her hand, breathing through his mouth to try and avoid the smells of soot and wildfire that still clung to him.

He was hobbled so tightly he could take only short steps – that didn't help. He was constantly losing his balance and tripping, so that the red woman's guards had to yank on his chains to keep him upright and stumbling in the right direction. The yanking hurt; he swore a lot. When one particularly bad trip sent him careening facefirst into a wall, the red woman turned around and gave him a look of annoyance. “Are you drunk?”

Somehow, the implication that he'd let himself become _impaired_ made him angry. He spat on the floor. “Piss on that; I'll get drunker if you let me.”

She continued on her way with an exasperated sigh, but didn't talk to him again.

When they reached the room she planned to use for her unholy little revels (which he still only half-believed was the purpose she'd culled him for), she held her hand out for his leads. “I will take him inside,” she said to the guards. “You prepare a bath. Large tub, hot water.”

He followed her in, feeling ridiculous – the chains were almost too heavy for her to _carry,_ let alone control him with. He could throw her to the floor just by jerking his weight around a little.

As if reading his mind, she stepped around behind him and placed the loose ends of the chains into his bound hands. “You might as well hold these yourself.” She went across the room to open a window.

He stared at the cascade of her red hair down her red back. She’d given him her _back_. He couldn’t help but feel disrespected. “You know I could-....”

He could. Even tied and injured, he could easily.

“But you won't,” Melisandre said, without even bothering to face him. She began lighting candles. “My work here is not yet finished. If I am struck down before I'm ready, the Lord will breathe life into me again so that I can continue. If that happens...” She turned, a long match in hand, and the jewel at her throat reflected it so perfectly he could have sworn she was wearing a tiny flame. “I won't be pleased.”

“Understood,” he managed at last. He swallowed. And then, lest she think he was just taking her lying whoring _word_ for it, he added: “I've seen the red god's work. Thoros of Myr resurrected a dead man right in front of me. One of _my_ dead men.” He didn't like that. Didn't appreciate having all his hard work undone.

She smiled at him, finally. Small and full of promise. “If you were impressed by Thoros of Myr,” she purred, “You’ll cream yourself when you see what _I_ can do.”

She blew out her match and set it down, absently reaching up to adjust her dress with her free hand.

Or perhaps not absent. The way her fingers skimmed the curve of her breast could not be an accident.

He didn't trust her. Not for one second did he trust her. “What do you want with me?” he said.

She came closer. “First I want you to bathe,” she said, flat and matter-of-fact. He didn't blame her.

Then she knelt down and started unwinding the chains from his legs. “And then...” Looking up at him from beneath eyelashes whose like he'd never seen, “I want you to take everything you have… all of your power… your anger and your pain… and come to me with it.”

She leaned in and pressed her lips against his thigh, and by some impossible sorcery they were _hot_ through his clothes. (His bloody, sweaty, pissed-in clothes. But she didn't take any notice of their condition at all). He tried to pull his mind together. “Why me?” he said roughly. “You're the first to ever accuse me of a pretty face – but that's not enough. Shouldn't you be fucking Stannis or something?”

“King Stannis is a good man,” she said. “A just and righteous man. But he has never been a _passionate_ man, and right now his fires burn lower than ever. What I need for the Lord's work tonight, my king cannot give me.” Her eyes were wide and serious. Not bedroom eyes but damn him if they weren't working just as well. “You can.”

* * *

**TBC.**

**Only a fire priestess can push his buttons in exactly the wrong ways  :o)**

**Why yes, kids, we are in for a dark, twisted hatefuck. I’m gonna warn for dubcon, because Melisandre is a creepy succubus witch and Sandor isn’t exactly in a position to say no, and I’m gonna warn for violence, because he’s not real happy with her and it shows.  If you don't want to read that, then you should probably exit this fic now.**

**Otherwise, stay tuned!  And let me know what you think so far...**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Uh, so, this got even more messed up than I was expecting. It gets dubcon and noncon warnings. Also, I faded to black on the more violent portions of the hatesex, but the whole thing is still pretty dark overall. Uh... sorry?**

* * *

She watched him wash and thought it was a terrible waste of a bath. He wasn't relaxing into the water and letting it soothe him; instead he was just scrubbing a cloth over himself methodically, fast and brutal. Stannis bathed that way too – not quite as violent, perhaps, but with that same hard military precision.

Men who did that were completely missing the point. “Let me help you,” she said, and came to kneel by the tub.

He regarded her with suspicion, but didn't resist as she rolled her sleeves up and reached into the water to scoop up one of his feet.

She showed him all the submission and safety that she could – her eyes were downcast, her hair loose, her touch gentle. She ran the cloth over him to clean him, and then moved to massage him with her hands.

He didn't relax, though. In fact he seemed to be hardly breathing, watchful, threatened, just waiting for her to go away. Before long she gave up trying to win him over by touch, and just left him to bathe on his own.

While she waited for him she sat by her candles. She could feel his eyes on her back. She smiled: if he was looking, she might as well give him something to look at.

She put her hand out, but even before heat licked at her she heard a splash. “Don't-!”

She turned and gave him a look of calm amusement. “Your concern is unnecessary,” she assured.

He scowled at her – hadn't meant to show concern, of course. He finished up his bath quickly and got out. She gave him a cloth to dry himself and watched him do it. She could feel the hostility, the _danger_ in him. At any moment he might snap and bite at her. “Are you ready?” she asked. “To give yourself to me?”

He muttered at her to fuck off but she was unfazed. “You won't refuse me,” she said. _You know what awaits you if you do._ She didn't say that, but it hung between them.

She said something more uplifting instead. More holy. “The Lord of Light has spoken: this _must_ happen,” she told him with authority. “He wills it. He has brought us together and prepared us for this moment.”

He was sneering. She ignored it. “This is why you were brought here to me: for this.” She came very close. “This is why I came to the city: for this.” She raised her hand to his scarred cheek. _Lord of Light, defend me._ “This is why this was done to you,” she said quietly, stroking the damage. “It was done so that tonight, you could give the Lord what he needs. This has been the reason all along.”

As she'd expected, he went berserk.

* * *

He wouldn't take that from anyone. Sorceress or no. One blow had her flying across the room, but that didn't come anywhere close to appeasing him and so he chased her and grabbed her again. Shook her so hard her teeth clacked together.

 _This is why this was done to you_ . The hell it was. “This was done,” he snarled as he threw her to the bed, “Because my brother is an ice-cold fucking bastard.” He climbed on top of her, straddling her ribs. “That's why.” He slapped her perfect face, back and forth, until both cheeks flamed red and she was flinching. “ _Fuck_ your god, you smug little bitch.”

She struggled underneath him, which rubbed her chest against his thighs. He slid back to straddle her hips instead, so that he could get a good grip on her bodice and rip it right the fuck open.

Her perfect whore tits spilled out immediately – she was wearing _nothing_ underneath. When she writhed again, he now realized that all that was between them was the thin silk of her gown. He was hard as iron suddenly and he _knew_ it was not natural. He let go of her and sat back. “The fuck did you do to me?”

Her voice was low and mellow as ever. “I poured something in the bathwater,” she told him. “That's all. I've made you hungry. Please: sate yourself.”

What the fuck else was he going to do?

* * *

There was enormous fury in him. Spilling his seed didn't drain him of it; he'd hardly pulled his teeth from her shoulder when already he was snarling and swearing at her, calling her _whore_ and _witch_ and a hundred other names she'd heard a thousand times before.

His unkindness couldn't upset her, but still she would punish it. “Here,” she said, and tossed a jar onto the bed at him. “Rub this on your manhood.”

He frowned at it. “What? Why?”

“It will return your hardness to you. You didn't think I only needed you _once_ , did you?” she laughed. “Please. Even Stannis could have managed to share himself _once_ with me. I am going to drain you dry.”

He couldn't know what she meant. The words evoked in most men some half-formed fantasy where she pleasured them again and again, drawing forth their seed until they were fully spent and satisfied. She could tell at once he was no different; he was chuckling as he opened up the jar. “This isn't going to sting _,_ is it?” he joked.

“Sting? No.” She pushed her torn gown off her shoulders and let it pool at her feet. Stepped out of it. “The sensation is awful, but it does not _sting._ ”

He froze, staring at her.

There were other ointments, sweeter ones, but he didn't deserve them. “You will apply it anyway,” she said. “Now.”

* * *

After he'd finished in her a second time, she went to fetch another potion and this time he thought to resist it. She turned from the vanity and saw him standing beside the bed, holding a pillow over himself. “Not again,” he said, with a note of pleading under all his insistence.

She considered herself a reasonable woman, and it seemed his temper had mellowed, so she paused. “Will you be able to perform again now without it?”

He swallowed. “Soon. Give me some time.”

But she could hear the lies in his voice. He would need to rest for hours. “We don't have time. Sit down and uncover yourself.”

He made no move to obey her.

She sighed. “If you don't want an ointment I have other ways,” she said. Lying herself, now. “But you of all people will not like them.”

She saw his eyes go wide as she reached for a candle. “No-!” he gasped before he could catch himself. The gasp was enough; she knew she had him. He gave her a look of hate, but sat down and exposed himself as requested.

“Good. Now spread your legs.” The order was unnecessary – there was more than enough room already for her to grab him and slick him up – but she didn't like that he'd defied her. “Wider.”

* * *

It was himself he hated as the red woman rubbed poison on his balls; himself he despised for allowing it. Once the heat began and he had to have her, though, it was _her_ he punished, ramming into her with her legs on his shoulders so that he could drive deep enough to hurt.

She bore it bravely, breath hissing and teeth bared. He couldn't get her to give up. No matter how hard he pounded her, all she did was stare at him and take it.

There was no more pleasure in it for him, so he made sure she got none either. He even tried to put a hand on her throat and squeeze, but her witching jewel heated up under his palm until he had to let go. He fucked her even more hatefully for that, and she laughed at him.

* * *

He told her he ached and he didn't want any more and he was finished, but she could feel that that was a lie. The climaxes might be sapping him physically, but they had not put out the fire within. His rage was alive and well.

Indeed, after she'd taken him into her four times already, he pulled out mid-thrust and set his manhood against her _elsewhere_. “How would you like _that_?” he snarled.

Did he think to make her beg? She was sitting on his lap, facing him, and she put her arms around his neck. “You may do anything you like to me,” she said calmly, “But I need you to finish inside me where I had you. It's in my womb that I can work my magic.”

“Work _this_ , you foul _bitch_.”

He grasped her by the hips, and all at once pulled down and thrust up. The body was only a vessel through which God could do his work and she truly didn't care what happened to her vessel but Lord of Light sweet God R'hllor the pain stole her breath away.

She didn't even realize she was praying aloud until he laughed at her, laughed in her face and said _pray to_ _**this** _ and forced in deeper.

* * *

While he was lying exhausted on the bed, groaning and holding himself, she went to prepare for next time. She drank some water for refreshment. She put on a robe and tied it at the waist. She brushed order into her hair and anointed herself with some different oils. She brought a powder over to the bed.

“Your anger is every bit as impressive as I expected,” she said. He looked up at her from where he was sprawled, and gave a huff that might have been laughter.

She gave him a warning frown. “But you have been withholding from me.” She waited for him to start to look nervous. “Your anger is not _all_ you have,” she explained. “You have more, and I want it. There is tenderness in you – or there could be. I know you would be generous, if you could.” She could tell he was listening. And she knew exactly what to say. “You would be generous... to _her._ You would protect _her_.”

Melisandre didn't know much about who _she_ was, but she didn't need to. She had seen glimpses – red hair, not as dark or pure as her own. Wide innocent eyes, wet with tears.

He stared at her – mortified, it looked like. As if she'd caught him doing something shameful and terrible.

“It's all right. Hush,” she said. She sprinkled her powder over the little brazier by the bed and beckoned. “Come inhale this scent.”

“Why?”

“Because I've grown bored of your savagery and I want something different. Now come: this won't harm you. Come.”

He crawled towards her.

“Breathe.” She waved the smoke in his direction and watched him take it in. “Again – deeper. Good.” When he started to sway she urged him up against the headboard to sit. “Good. Now close your eyes – you need a rest. Close your eyes. No harm will come to you. Good.”

He was obeying. “Now relax and breathe deeply; you're safe here. In and out. In... and out.” She watched the drug take hold. Watched him breathe, watched him obey. “Good,” she said at last. He was almost ready. “And now... think of _her._ Think of what you would give her, if you could.”

He let out a soft throaty noise at that – and didn't even seem to notice. Melisandre drew her power over herself and took a deep breath. “All right: now open your eyes.”

When he looked at her his mouth fell open in shock. “Good,” she said. “Now show me.”

* * *

**TBC.**

**So, uh, the sex-magic isn't all the way done yet. Sorry! One more chapter is incoming. And then that might be the end. Or, depending on interest, I might write some more to tie up loose ends.**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:  Consent warnings continue to apply.**

* * *

 

He was dimly aware that he'd been drugged with something.  He hardly cared though; the red woman was telling him all was well and he'd already given himself over to her power tonight.  Nothing to do but hope she meant what she said.

He was so groggy he had hardly the energy to open his eyes when she commanded it.  It was worth it when he did though.  What he saw was not the red woman but-

_Show me,_ she said, her lips full and soft.

Her skin was fair – but not pale and sickly as he'd seen it lately, not blotched red from crying.

Not marred with bruises.  (That he'd stood there and watched darken on her cheeks.  _That he'd stood there and watched inflicted._ )

His stomach roiled.  He grabbed her hard, almost violently, and crushed her to him.  “No,” he whispered to her.  “Not again.  I've got you.”

He stroked her hair.  It felt right.

_Show me_ , she said again.  He wasn't sure if it was aloud or just in his head, but it was perfect – exactly what he wanted to hear.  _Hold me.  Touch me.  I want you._

She wouldn't want to look at him.  He remembered that; she never wanted to look at him.  He didn't blame her.  “Hush,” he said, and, still holding her to his chest, leaned over and blew out some of the candles by the bed.

She whined unhappily at that _(of course; **she** loves fire)_ but clung to him still.  Held him, pulled him down, kissed him.

_Show me.   Take me.  I want you – please._   She was grabbing at him and he thought of her eyes, her big terrified eyes, and he hushed her and she held him close.

She was guiding him into her, his little bird, slight and soft and warm.  Exhausted as he was he still kept his weight up on his arms so as not to crush her.  _Yes, yes, like that.  Oh._ She was stroking his back, squeezing him inside, urging him on.

He came almost immediately.  The climax was painful, ripped from his guts almost harder than he could stand, and he groaned into her hair and whimpered _stop_.

* * *

When he came back to himself Sansa was gone, and he was under no illusions about whether she'd ever been there in the first place.  “Damn you,” he said to the red woman, who was over fussing with her potions and powders again.

She looked at him over her shoulder.  “Good, you're awake again.”

_Good_?  He laughed.  “I’m finished, you bitch.  Leave me alone.”

“That's not true.”  She glided across the room to him and sat on the bed.  He tried to avoid her gaze, as if she was a feral animal that might attack, but she sighed and put her hands on his face.  “I know you,” she said seriously, looking into his eyes.  “I've seen everything about you.”  She said it without any disgust at all.  Or any pity.

She leaned in and kissed him.  He allowed it, because by now her body was so familiar to him it didn't feel like an encroachment.  It felt, in fact, like a true kiss – with more affection than anyone had shown him in years.  Maybe ever.

It was a while before he pushed her away, but eventually he managed.  “If you know everything,” he said, “Then you know that that girl was my last secret.  I have nothing else to give you.”

“That's not true,” she said again.  She climbed up to straddle his lap, shushing him when he made a sound of pain.  Even now, with no poison working on him and no burning-hot cunt sucking him in, his whole groin ached.  Like a great number of someones had stood him up and taken turns kicking him in the balls.  It _hurt._

“Careful,” he grunted, and tried to shift her weight off him.

She didn't let him.  “You have more,” she insisted.  “You have yourself.  It will be just you and me now – no punishment and no lies.  I want you badly.  I want _you._ ”  Damn her for knowing what a first that was.  He hated her now more than ever.  “I'm sorry it will be difficult for you.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, and again he kissed her back.  (Maybe he was still drugged.).  He pushed her robe off her shoulders and took her breasts in his hands.  Her nipples were already hard.  He thumbed them gently, kneaded her flesh, and her breath caught.  Her hips jerked and she pressed against him.  She was... responding to him.  He wished he didn't care.

At last she rose up on her knees, “I know you can bear it.  Once more.  You won't have to do anything.”  As her hand reached underneath to take hold of him, he smelled that awful potion.  _No,_ he groaned, but she ignored him.  “Hush.  Just let me take you.”

Take him she did.  It was miserable this time, worse than ever, agonizing from the start.  As she rode him he gripped her waist hard enough to bruise, then started gripping the headboard instead because the temptation to throw her off him was just too strong.  _I can't_ , he kept moaning – with his eyes closed, because it was shameful to beg mercy of a woman even now.  “Look at me.  You can,” she said firmly, and made him look into her eyes while she hurt him and took from him.  “I see you.  You _can_.”  The worst was that she was right: he could.

* * *

When he awoke she was wiping him down with something soft.  It was very soft, the softest cloth he’d ever felt, but still its touch on his cock made him whimper.  He was chafed to hell and back.  And that last peak – brutal and wrenching – had given him no pleasure at all _._ She got a fresh cloth and wiped the sweat from his forehead and the tears from his cheeks.  She scrubbed gently at his eyes and he let her do it; it wasn’t as if she didn’t already know he’d been crying.  He'd cried through half that last fuck, blubbered like a baby, begging her to stop and whimpering that he  _couldn't._

She'd told him to hush and kept right on going.

“I know.  Rest,” she said now, and he didn't manage to hate her because there was something a little friendlier in her tone.  “You gave me what I needed.  You did well, and I thank you.”

She’d fully sucked the life out of him; he didn’t have it in him even to answer.  He only lay still, wondering whether exhaustion and sex-ache could kill a man, until he heard her approach with a heavy clanking sound.

“Your shackles,” she explained.  “I must return you to the cells soon, and I can’t ask my guards to take charge of you unfettered.”

Did her guards realize that he was weak as a kitten?  Fucking cowards.  He managed to twitch his head in a nod, but permission was as far as he could go towards helping her.

“Can you turn onto your side?”

He couldn’t.  He didn’t think he was ever going to move again.

The red woman sighed – annoyed, it sounded like – and rolled him herself, far enough to pull his arms behind him.  He made a sound of protest; the position wasn’t really comfortable.  He was too weak to do anything about it though, and when she stroked his arm and murmured _shhh_ he was too pliant.  He felt her lock the cuffs.  He managed an experimental twist, and discovered that they were secure but not unpleasantly tight.

Next came rope, above his elbows.  He was still relaxed enough to be flexible, and she didn’t cinch too tightly, so he allowed that too.

“I should have dressed you first,” she realized afterwards.  “Now I’ll have to return you shirtless.”

He summoned up the energy to shrug.

“Well, I have trousers for you at least.  Plain and roughspun, but they'll serve.”

They'd be better than his piss-soaked, blood-spattered and soot-smelling leathers, anyway.  He grunted and shrugged again.

“All right.  Move a little – I'll put them on for you.”  He shifted his leg in the way she was nudging, and then went limp again and let her do it.  She was careful about touching him between the legs but still it was more than uncomfortable, and he could hear himself making noises.

“Now your leg irons,” she said.  The shackles were cold and he shuddered violently when they closed on him.  She laughed, but not unkindly.  “Apologies.  I know that chills.”

She patted him as if he were a child or a puppy or something, but he was too worn out even to resent it.

“I’m going to call the guards in now.”

“Mm,” he said.  The very best he could do.

When the guards came in she asked him to stand up, but of course he couldn’t even try.

She sighed and directed them to shove him off the bed, which they did without much gentleness, and drag him out.

“I'm finished with him.  Take him down to the dungeons,” she said.  “He can't even stand up on his own and he'll probably sleep the clock around, so don't disturb him tomorrow.”  He was watching the jewel at her throat – it seemed alive.  All of a sudden, her face didn’t.  She blinked in his direction, and there was nothing behind her eyes. 

He went cold even before she said it:  “We can burn him the morning after.”

* * *

**The End. (?)**

**This had been my intended ending, but then people got me wondering what newly-liberated Sansa would have to say about all this, and I'm wondering if maybe she would step in and help him out.  So, there is a potential reprieve out there somewhere.  Not sure I'm going to write it, but I might.**

**Let me know what you thought of this fic!**


End file.
